


We Split the Sunrise

by sarai377



Series: East of the Sun and West of the Moon [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, East of the Sun and West of the Moon - Freeform, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Princes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarai377/pseuds/sarai377
Summary: Tensions between Plegia and Ylisse are high. After the Fire Emblem is stolen, Prince Chrom rides out for Plegia to reclaim it. Prince Robin meets him at the border with an army of his own, but their fight is interrupted by strange undead creatures that appeared out of nowhere. The two princes work together to dispatch the Risen, and form a friendship (and maybe something more) as they track down the Fire Emblem and the source of all these Risen.When Robin is injured during one battle, Chrom shows how much Robin means to him... as a friend. (AU features an uptight but not evil Validar, some canon-bending (we do not claim to be at all canon-compliant), drama and cuteness!)Part 1 of East of the Sun and West of the Moon: a Chrobin Princes AU Collab





	We Split the Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> For Chrobinweek 2019 - Battle and War prompt
> 
> (Please note - there is an image with blood in it within the text)

The town is burning - a Plegian village this time, large enough to contain both temple and town hall. Robin will never get used to the smell of death and destruction, the clinging way fabric and hair burns. But he stands tall, watching over his army atop a little bluff, the sands of Plegia shifting beneath his boots. This is his land, his father’s kingdom, and this Plegian prince will let no creature, mortal or undead, ravage it while he still draws breath. He balances on his toes, and runs fingers across the worn tactician’s book in its carrying case at his side - half of the pages covered in his mother’s cramped scrawl, and the other half in his own. 

He wears her cloak, too, purple and gold, with a thousand pockets to store all manner of items and notes. It calms him, to touch this book and fabric and know her fingers had done the same, long ago. 

He’s sent the Ylissean prince to the left flank, and Robin’s eyes catch on his strong, unbent profile, lit by a nearby guttering fire. Clouds billow above, smoke and unnatural particles. Two months after their first encounter with the Risen, they are still no closer to understanding their creation or movements. Sometimes Robin thinks they come out of thin air. At least they die when stabbed or attacked, fading back into the roil of clouds that eventually dissipates when every Risen is gone. 

A young messenger comes from Chrom’s side, handing Robin a note written in Chrom’s graceful script. _We are ready - do we attack or hold?_

Robin writes a trio of words at the bottom and hands it back, and the messenger hops on the waiting pegasus and darts across. A strange longing fills Robin’s heart as he watches the prince turn and bend to take the note. The smile that crosses his face as he reads is broad and charming. Chrom doesn’t know the effect he has on anyone, least of all Robin. When he turns that smile across the soon-to-be battlefield, directly at him, Robin feels a warmth crawl up the back of his neck.

He smiles back, charmed, and looks away. 

_Hold, you brute_ , the note says with affectionate familiarity. 

Chrom holds the line. 

They’ve integrated Ylissean and Plegian units together, pairing weaker units with strong, heavily shielded ones. After two months of near-continuous fighting and marching, they have weeded out those that refuse to work with the other country. He doesn’t know how it will be when they disband. A bit like losing an appendage, perhaps. 

Robin puts those thoughts from his mind, glancing again at Chrom. He’s turned away, motioning to his flank to spread out. The Ylissean prince’s presence by his side is another thing that steadies Robin. 

Their strange coalition had started with a missing artifact - the Fire Emblem, held secure by Ylisse for centuries, had been stolen. Chrom and his army broached the border, claiming that a Plegian had taken it. Robin had gone to meet them, after begging his father to let him try and resolve the conflict his way. The two princes had fought. Chrom was the stronger fighter, but Robin had cunning on his side. Robin had gotten Chrom to the ground, his sword at his throat… and then the Risen appeared. The two armies had turned against their mutual foe, and when the fighting was done, both princes were disinclined to continue their fight. 

It was rocky going for the first couple of weeks, Robin trying to test Chrom with everything he could… but gradually they came to trust one another, in between fights for their lives and arguments over nothing. Chrom’s strength is a rock to cling to as the sands shift beneath him, and Chrom has said more than once that they would all have been lost to the Risen, were it not for Robin’s intellect. If Robin holds that praise a bit too close, who will know-- 

There’s movement and sound from Robin’s right. Risen charge beneath the rocky crags that shelter the town, not from the center of the village as Robin had expected. 

He takes this in with a sharp inhale, and struggles not to cough from the smell. It’s not where he’d expected them. He’d set his weaker forces on the right-side flank, the mages and, too close to the approaching Risen, two of their healers. 

Robin acts without thinking, trusting his battle-hardened instincts. He’s the only one that can get in their way, can keep the right flank from buckling. He reaches for the magical tome on his other side, flipping it open to one of the incantations he already knows by heart. Lightning sparks from his fingers. His feet are caught on the sand, but he knows how to walk, how to move quickly on the flats of his feet rather than the toes. This is his kingdom, and his people. 

The first crack of lightning breaks the first row of Risen. “With me!” he cries to the mages, “Shield the healers!” He knows - trusts - that Chrom has seen the lightning, is already moving the rest of the army to help. He just has to hold against the Risen. 

He slides the tome into its case and draws his blade in the same motion. The thin flat blade comes up, firelight glittering along the steel, catching on the amethysts in the wrapped hilt. Khopesh, the blade of his ancestors, is a counterpart to Chrom's Falchion, granted to him when he turned sixteen. The grip curls comfortingly around his knuckles, knowing the blood beneath his skin. 

He has but a breath to compose himself, and the Risen are around him. They come at him with sword and axe, lance and shield. He wields his blade against them, the smoky haze of their bodies cloyingly close, and all around the sharp tang of lightning and fire and the sizzling shriek of wind magic. 

"My lord," one young mage says, coming to his side and catching his arm. Her eyes are wide, destroying his concentration. She tugs. "The cavalry…" 

Robin sees, too late, the Risen raising his axe behind her. He shoves, moves, tries to twist Khopesh to meet the fierce blow. He shouts at the Risen, a fierce battle cry that might have cowed a mortal. 

The mage gasps, sprawling to the ground, tome flying just out of reach, the green-blue glow fading from between the pages as sand dusts the cover. 

The cavalry crashes into the ranks of the Risen nearby, a crush of thunder. 

Robin’s blade lands true, a second too late - as the Risen's axe catches Robin's side and sinks into his ribs. 

Bright numbness rushes across his body, the shock of the thud and a strange crack reverberating in his chest. Robin keeps his grip on Khopesh, wrenches it free from the Risen as the creature begins to decompose. He pulls his elbow against his body, needing to look around, to assess the battlefield. He needs to be in control, needs to reclaim the line, needs to protect them. The world sways and tilts. 

The shouts and clashes swarm into him, and he is only aware of how quiet everything was for the brief moment before the sounds return full-bore. _Shock… I’m going into shock_. Robin shifts his cloak aside and blinks at the redness seeping through his light-colored layers beneath. _It’s bad._

He’s not aware of falling to his knees, of dropping his sword, but his knees are in the sand and his hand is empty. He is very aware of the burning, _searing_ throb where the axe laid him bare, broke one or maybe two of his ribs, cut his body open. 

He gasps, and presses his fingers to the tear in his mother’s cloak. 

“Robin!” Chrom is there, before Robin can process his approach. “Robin, you’re hurt…” 

“How is the army?” Robin asks weakly, grabbing Chrom’s arm for support, a bloody handprint on his sleeve. It hurts, _it hurts_ , and Robin needs a distraction from it. 

“Hush,” Chrom blurts, and reaches in, beneath Robin’s cloak, peeling back layers. His fingers brush gently against bare skin. For a moment, Robin revels in it, in knowing that Chrom is touching him. But then his fingers find the wound. Robin screws up his face as the edged sting emanates outward, pulsing in his skull, in his toes. 

Chrom curses, a low string of words in Ylissean. He grabs Robin’s chin and forces him to look at him. His eyes are wild, too blue after all the scarlet. “Stay with me,” he says. 

“I’m… right here.” Robin blinks, slow, but then Chrom presses a cloth to his side. 

Robin screams, contorts away from the pain. For a handful of moments, he becomes briefly untethered from his body, watching as Chrom pulls him close, calls for a healer, strong and confident, exactly as a prince should be. Everything dims, as if a cloud has moved across the sun, except it wasn’t sunny to begin with. 

He returns to a different pain than the one in his side. Chrom is gently slapping his cheek. The battlefield sounds are quieter, but no longer muffled. Has he been moved? 

Clouds drift lazily above him, past Chrom’s frantic expression. Chrom is speaking, his words drifting in and out. “Stay with me, Robin. Wake up. Don’t you dare leave. I need you!” 

“Yes, I know,” he mutters, and tries to sit up, but Chrom’s hand on his shoulder keeps him down. Chrom is breathing hard, his breath puffing Robin’s hair. 

“Are you… hurt, Chrom?” It’s hard to concentrate beyond the sharp pain, so myriad and overwhelming that he cannot get his eyes to work properly. He sees blue, and sky, blurred but bright like the flash of Chrom’s smile reaching his blue eyes. 

Except Chrom is not smiling. 

Chrom’s sister, Lissa, is beside him, muttering incantations under her breath. Beyond her, Frederick stands guard, impressive in his armor. 

“Chrom,” Robin looks at him, fighting for focus. “The… the battle, who is watching…” 

“It’s fine,” Chrom blurts, a little too abrupt, as if he doesn’t care -- but then his voice goes soft. “We’ve got it. Trust me when I say, we are winning.” 

Robin sags with relief. He does trust him. He trusts the hands holding him still. Chrom has been there for Robin and unwillingly, the thought crosses his mind - what happens when the Risen are all gone? What happens to this companionship, the way they’ve reached across barely-peaceful country lines, when the mutual threat has been eliminated? He won’t be able to turn his own blade against Chrom, if tensions continue to rise as they had before. He _won’t_. 

Magic washes over him, healing magic, the warmth of sunlight streaming through his bones combined with the touch of a steaming bath to clear all the sand from his skin. A strange, unfamiliar sound breaks from his mouth, a _whimper_ , and Chrom leans closer, murmuring soft things into his hair. It’s… strangely intimate, but Robin doesn’t want to release his arm, doesn’t want to relinquish this moment. 

He doesn’t know exactly when he’d developed this crush on his Ylissean counterpart, only that it grows stronger with every late-night tactical discussion, every dashing smile, until it’s a ball of energy tingling in his chest, sparking out at random things, and princes should be much more dignified than this… 

“There,” Lissa says, her voice weak and dragging. “Chrom, sit him up, here…Robin, are you… good. Deep breaths...” 

Robin grits his teeth as the magic fades, and with it, most of the pain in his side. He knows without touching that the wound is closed, his bones knitted back together. It aches still, but manageable. It will be tender for days still. He’s grateful for the Ylissean healing, so much stronger than Plegian skills. Robin has tried to get their people to trade magical theory, but there’s only so much learning that can happen in between ferocious battles. 

Speaking of battles… 

Robin opens his eyes and tries to rise. Chrom is there, holding him down, keeping him so close he feels the warmth of his body. “Wait a minute, let the magic do its work.” 

Robin lets Chrom hold him. “The mage - did I save her?” He can’t remember her name… something floral, named after one of the exotic blooming cacti that pepper the desert in the south. Rebutia, or Parodia...

“You did, you fool,” Chrom says, and he sounds angry enough that Robin opens his eyes again. 

His face is made of stone, handsome but surly. 

Lissa has already moved on, and Frederick with her - Robin looks around to see that they are mostly alone. Chrom is kneeling on the sands beside Robin. When Robin shifts and looks down at his body, Chrom sinks back to his heels and releases him, anger lining every hard angle. 

“I’m not a fool,” Robin counters, and his fingers find the slash in the cloak, trying to press the severed strands back together. “I protected the line, didn’t I?” 

“That’s not the point,” Chrom says. “You could have _died_. You’re so good at seeing your way through scenarios, seeing the best way through any formation… but you don’t see the danger to yourself.” 

Robin draws himself up, careful not to twist at the midsection. A spark of cold fury rises in his chest. It’s a familiar argument, but from a person he’d expected would understand him, it hurts just as much as with his father. 

_“You’re my only child, Robin.” “It’s too dangerous.” “Only if you stay to the rear of the convoy…”_

He closes his hand into a fist. “I wasn’t going to sit back and watch our people get hurt, especially when I misjudged that attack. Nobody else could have gotten there in time, so I--” 

“Rushed into danger,” Chrom finished. 

“Did what I had to,” Robin snaps. The injury and, if he’s being honest, embarrassment, make his words sharper than they should be. Chrom just saved him, after all, had comforted him while he lay on the edge of consciousness. He shouldn’t be lashing out at him, but he can’t stop himself. “You would have done the same. I’m tired of being treated like a child, kept out of harm's way. Getting injured means I’m one of you… and I thought you of all people would understand that.” He stands, wanting to prove his competence, but a wave of dizziness has him staggering. 

Chrom catches his elbow and steadies him without a word. Robin glances up at him, ready to continue his argument. 

Chrom’s eyes are understanding, all traces of anger gone. If anything, he almost looks contrite. “I’m sorry, Robin. You’re right. I understand how important this is to you. I just… I worry that you’re pushing yourself too hard.” 

Robin wants to bristle at the thought, but he pays attention to what Chrom is saying. He _does_ hold himself to a high standard, something Chrom’s pointed out more than once. “I’m a prince,” he says, hesitant. “Everyone’s eyes are on me.” 

“I’m a prince too,” Chrom reminds him, the corner of his mouth tilting up. He’s still holding Robin’s elbow, a comforting touch after what just happened. “And I think you’re doing a great job - wounds aside.” 

Robin presses a hand to his side, but can’t stop the smile that bubbles up from deep within. The words suffuse him with warmth. 

Chrom sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He deposits a streak of blood - Robin’s blood - high on his forehead, and Robin reaches up to brush it away with a thumb. As he touches Chrom’s warm skin, he realizes what he’s doing, and jerks away. Chrom’s hand falls from his elbow. 

“Er, you had some blood,” Robin says, then stops before an awkward pile of words spills out. 

“Shall we check on _our_ army?” Chrom says, emphasizing the _our_. 

Robin looks up at him, and for a moment feels like he could float away. Even the ache in his side, which will linger for a few days, doesn’t dampen the way his heart rises at that. _Our army_. 

Chrom is watching Robin with a strange smile, and Robin can’t help but smile back. “Thank you, Chrom.” 

Chrom says nothing, but his smile deepens. He gives a motion, then falls in beside Robin as they walk toward the town. It’s exactly where Robin wants him to be. 

~*~

Chrom doesn’t know what he expected of the city Robin grew up in, but it is not this - a riot of color everywhere he looks, spices and heady perfume accosting his senses. Even the sounds of the marketplace are different from those back home. People call out in Plegian. Animals and birds bay, screech, rumble. They pass a temperamental wyvern carrying its mistress’s wares, and the heat off the scaled body is warmer than the sun. Mount Ruah, the capital of Plegia, is alive in a way that Chrom didn’t anticipate. He knows he’s staring, but he cannot stop. 

This is Robin's kingdom, and seeing it explains a few things about Robin… but unlocks more than a few mysteries, as well. Robin is so reserved, even here, walking a few arms-lengths from Chrom. His words from two days ago, his impassioned plea, resonate within Chrom: _Everyone's eyes are on me._ The people see Robin, yes, recognize their crown prince, but they also aren't judging him as much as he thinks. 

The Shepherds, those chosen few that flocked to the two princes as personal guard and entourage, spread out around them. Olivia and Tharja, both from Plegia, offer impromptu explanations of customs, food, decorations. Chrom listens, but can’t focus. An older woman with a deep red headwrap holds up a parrot, which squawks and then repeats a few of Tharja’s words. The dark mage glowers at the bird, and the woman quickly turns her attention to more willing buyers. Robin smiles as Chrom glances his way, a small but genuine expression. 

Someone nudges Chrom in the ribs, and he jumps. “Here, try this, captain,” Sully says, and shoves a wrapped pastry into his hand. “It’s incredible.” 

Chrom bites into it, hissing a little as the warm insides threaten to spill out. It’s spicy and sweet, tasting of peaches and other, stranger fruits he’s never had before. “Delicious,” he blurts, and turns, meaning to ask Robin what it contains. 

The Plegian prince is looking away. He seems to hold himself taller, and even his stride is more rigid, as if he’s taken the weight of his whole country onto his shoulders and must stand straighter to compensate. One hand lingers by his side, beneath his cloak, over the healed axe wound. 

Chrom quickly swallows his delicious mouthful, meaning to ask Robin if they should see a healer about any residual pain, but several of the Shepherds gasp. He jerks, looking ahead, to see Olivia accept a flaming baton from another pink-haired woman - a woman who is likely related to her, judging by the identical almond shape to their eyes. On an unspoken count, they fall into a strange paired dance, flames swirling around as they fling the batons back and forth. The performance lasts only a minute, but it’s impressive enough that Chrom grabs the pastry between his teeth so he can clap along with the others. Olivia blushes, and the other woman hugs her, then gives her a little shove back to the Shepherds. 

Chrom glances at Robin. While he is smiling, his eyes have gone up, away from the others. He’s looking at the castle, or perhaps at the stony protrusion along the road leading up to it. Chrom squints. The rocks make a pattern that nags at the back of his mind, but he doesn’t recognize it instantly. There are tiny figures nearby, defining the immensity. It almost seems deliberately placed. 

“What is that?” Chrom asks, motioning with the pastry. 

Robin looks back, blinking as if he’s forgotten where he is for a moment. “Ah. You’ll see, when we get closer…” And with those cryptic words, Robin slips through the milling Shepherds and leans in to speak to Tharja. She gives him a sharp nod, then turns to lead them off once more. 

It takes Chrom until they are nearly on top of it for the strange shape to make sense. When he realizes those strange pieces are _teeth_ , it clicks. 

It’s a _skull_ , the immensity of it hitting him all at once. And not just any skull. “Grima,” Chrom whispers, his hand going to Falchion’s hilt. 

It makes those wyverns back in the marketplace look fresh out of the egg. The lower jaw is missing, but the top jaw of the elongated skull rests on the tips of giant crooked teeth. It towers over them, teeth pressed into the earth. It has been washed to a dull ivory by sun and sand, looking almost like sandstone.

He and the rest of the Ylisseans gape at it, but Tharja and Olivia and Robin walk on, unaware that their companions have fallen behind. 

Two children rush right into the skull’s mouth, bubbling with laughter, and Chrom wants to catch them before they disappear into the maw. Their parents follow, a pair of men holding hands, calling after them in Plegian to slow down. They cast the Ylisseans curious glances, and then one of the men notices Robin. “Prince Robin!” They offer him bows and brush fingers across their eyes in a strange movement. Robin bows in answer, face in shadows. The parents hurry after their children, and Robin turns back to Chrom. 

“Come here,” he says, and motions Chrom over. When Chrom hesitates, Robin touches the enormous tooth. “He hasn’t bitten anyone in quite a while, you know.” 

Chrom laughs nervously, and joins Robin. There are markings all along the bone, too even and familiar to have been made by anything other than human tools. At Robin’s gesture, Chrom removes a glove, all too aware of the mark on his arm, identifying him to everyone as Naga’s blessed. He shouldn’t be touching Grima’s sacred remains, not like this, but Robin takes his hand and presses it to the bone. 

Chrom braces, expecting a reaction, but there’s nothing. The bone is warmed by the sun, but no warmer than normal. No vengeful spirit awakens within the decrepit skull. 

“He reminds us that we are immortal and mortal - that our spirits live on after our bodies fade. Death is part of life, and life part of death.” Robin looks at him, seeking understanding, and Chrom shifts closer, drawn to the light in his eyes. What he sees in Chrom makes him relax, unspoken things moving between them. 

“It reminds us to make the best of our time in this form.” Robin runs a finger along a curved mark in the tooth, smiling in a secret way at Chrom. More unspoken things glitter in his face, only this time, Chrom has no clue what they mean. 

He follows the slow way Robin’s finger moves, and then blinks. “Are those… carvings?” 

Robin’s hand stills, but his voice is warm. “They are.” 

“Who would do such a thing?” Chrom demands.

“I want to.” Robin says it softly, then looks to Chrom as if surprised to find him so close. “We ask him for blessings, leave a record of ourselves here. It’s said that Grima feels our prayers on his bones, from beyond. Sometimes he answers them. I just… I don’t know what to write, yet.” 

This hesitant son of Grima is another side of Robin, turning and turning, and the more Chrom sees, the more he wants to, like unraveling a heavily-wrapped present to get to the treat inside. “You will,” Chrom says. “You’ll know what to write when the time is right.” 

Robin stares at him, meeting his eyes, and then his gaze falls down Chrom’s face. Chrom swallows as Robin moistens his lips. For some reason, Chrom thinks that Robin has realized what he wants to write on Grima’s old bones. 

“Let’s go talk with my father,” Robin says. He gives one last caress to the skull’s warm surface, and then starts for the palace once more. 

The empty eye sockets seem to watch Chrom as he moves past, but he cannot find warning or welcome in the vacant gaze. It is, perhaps, just a skull, a memento mori which the Plegians have turned into something more. He loves it, just a little, with the same excitement he loves the catacombs beneath the palace back home. He could fall in love with this place, he thinks, as much as he loves Ylisstol’s seasons and people. He hadn’t expected this. 

Slipping his glove on, Chrom hurries to catch up to Robin’s rigid back. 

~*~

The throne room is wide and echoing like a deep cavern. Chrom has to glance to the windows to reassure himself that he’s not underground. It reminds him of the catacombs beneath his own castle, of secrets and adventure, but the way Robin holds himself at Chrom's side feels as if they are both on trial. 

King Validar sits with a familiar poise. The burnished dark crown sits almost ominous across his forehead, glittering with sunlight even though no sunbeam falls on the throne. 

His dark eyes find Robin, standing straight and tall beside Chrom. The way he assesses his son makes Chrom want to step in front of Robin, to shield him from view. He doesn’t, instead allowing Robin to lead them up the gold and purple carpet. Whispers rise from the men and women standing or sitting to either side. They are speaking of him, rude words in Plegian, and none of them realize he is fluent. A stewardess behind Validar comes to attention, looking as if she’d been two moments from falling sound asleep on her feet. 

When they get close, Validar's expression brightens a bit, as if a weight has been lifted from weary shoulders. Chrom wonders if word of Robin's injury made it back to him. "Ah, good. Prince Robin, Prince Chrom." His voice is low and dark, but pitched so everyone can hear it. He waves a dismissive hand at the courtiers. "Leave us. I want to have a word with the princes about their latest battles." One long hand curls around the armrest, and the other taps an impatient beat with trimmed fingernails. 

The courtiers take their leave, bowing and retreating with surprising quickness, when compared to Emmeryn's councilors. Chrom glances back and nods to Frederick and Stahl, who turn and follow the Plegians out. He can’t help but feel as though an unpleasant decree is coming, but he stands as still as he can, beside Robin, who is as straight as a ruler. 

After everyone has cleared out, Validar rises and approaches, coming down the steps. He’s tall, slender, but undeniably powerful. His slippered feet make little sound on the cool stones. Chrom suppresses a shiver. 

"We have cleared most of the Risen from the south, Father," Robin says, but pauses as Validar steps closer. For a moment, Chrom thinks father and son might hug, but the tension between them is all wrong. It is not a meeting of family members, but of a king and his heir. Chrom thinks of how much he misses Emmeryn's calm stoicism, her gentle guidance. 

Validar's hand goes to Robin’s cloak, to the frayed edges where the axe bit through. Robin meets his gaze, hands curled into his oversized cuffs, breathing fast. The king exhales deliberately, and his expression softens for a brief moment before hardening back into something as unyielding as the stones of Mount Ruah. 

Validar’s hand shakes as he removes it from the slashed fabric. His eyebrows crease, lines appearing between them, lines that, on another person, might have been laughter lines. “It’s true, then. I heard you were injured defending your formation, but it appears the severity was downplayed. You could have _died_.” Validar’s mouth twists, and Robin looks away from the reprimand. The king switches to Plegian, meant to keep Chrom from hearing the next part. “I encouraged your fascination with battlefield tactics with the understanding that you would stay _safe_ , Robin. What would your mother say, if she were here to see this?” 

Robin flinches, biting his bottom lip. Chrom expects - hopes - that Robin will say something, will argue back as he did with Chrom… but after two heartbeats, it’s apparent that he won’t. And Chrom won’t stand for anyone talking down to his friend like this. 

“She would be proud,” Chrom says, as Validar draws breath for another round of scathing remarks. He’s careful to speak in common, not wanting to butcher the beautiful Plegian sounds with his own accent. 

Validar’s head whips around, narrowing those dark eyes. Chrom sees the resemblance between father and son in that expression. 

“I’ve seen a fair bit of her tactics, from his book,” Chrom continues, motioning to Robin. Robin’s mouth is open, his reaction equal parts horror and admiration. "He’s saved us from danger many times, and he’s earned his spot in our army. Robin’s good at this. He wants to _lead_ , to do good by his people, and I think he’s doing a great job.” 

Validar is staring at Chrom with open hostility. 

Chrom opens his mouth, ready to continue, but Robin steps between them. “I’m sorry, Father. It was…" His golden eyes dart to Chrom, then away. "It was a surprise for both of us. It won't happen again." 

Chrom frowns at Robin. "That's not…" 

"It _won't_ happen again." Robin shoots him a look, and Chrom bites his tongue, suddenly aware that Validar is _king_ , and he is a foreign prince, tolerated because of his status and the temporary peace treaty signed while the army hunts down all the Risen. But this is also Robin's well-being. If Robin won't stand up to his father for what he wants… who will? 

Not Chrom. Not today, anyway, although the admission makes him a bit queasy. 

Validar is regarding him with a familiar pattern-searching look, one that Robin has sported many times, including their first meeting, right before causing him to lose his footing and dumping him to the uneven ground. Chrom stares back, standing straight and tall for Robin, who bows to this man. Father or not, Chrom knows Validar is to blame for a great many of Robin's internal controls, for the way he holds himself to such high standards. 

Validar lets Chrom’s interruption slide, perhaps remembering that he cannot insult this upstart Ylissean prince, not if he wants to keep their chances of a treaty alive. “Continue your report, son,” he says, and retakes his throne with deliberate intention. 

Despite the chill in the air, a trickle of sweat leeches down Chrom’s spine. He doesn’t speak for the rest of the brief meeting, except to answer questions aimed at him. 

Validar gives them a curt nod. “You may go. Robin, I hope to see you for dinner tonight.” 

Despite the earlier reprimand, Robin smiles, and it softens every part of him. “I’ve missed you, father. It will be good to catch up.” 

And to Chrom’s astonishment, the king softens as well. His smile eases the severity of his face, making him younger in an instant. It makes Chrom's heart ache for the father he never knew, and for his elder sister, half a world away. 

“I’ve missed you, too. There’s been a new shipment of books from Valm, awaiting your perusal.” 

“We can inspect them later,” Robin promises. 

“Please send in my stewardess when you leave. She’ll be at the door.” 

And with that, they are dismissed. No hug, no heartwarming goodbye. 

Robin executes a perfectly stiff bow, and Validar unrolls a scroll from the small table beside the throne. He does not look up as Chrom hastily bows as well. 

Robin waits until they are outside and the doors have closed behind the now-harried stewardess to turn on Chrom. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he hisses, crossing his arms. 

“And you shouldn’t have apologized on my behalf. I meant what I said.” 

“I…” Robin’s anger has dissipated, so fast that Chrom didn’t see it fade. He shifts from foot to foot, hands falling open at his sides. “No one’s ever done that for me.” 

“Nobody’s ever stood up for you before?” Chrom is astonished. 

“That - that’s not what I meant,” Robin says, growing more flustered. “Father… I…” He sucks in a breath. “Thank you, Chrom.” 

Chrom blinks, and can’t help the confused smile that crosses his face. “You’re… welcome?” 

“You must let me repay you,” Robin forges ahead, a path suddenly made clear in his mind. And even though he’s still confused, Chrom likes seeing Robin so determined. “I know, I’ll take you on a tour of the city. All my favorite places. And.” His eyes twinkle. “If you promise not to fall asleep, I’ll take you to the library.” 

Chrom snorts. “You think I won’t enjoy the library? What kind of a brute do you take me for?” 

Robin’s grin lights up the foyer, as if the sun has found its way in through the strangely-slanted windows. Chrom’s chest feels lighter than it has since Robin’s injury, and he shakes the tension out of his shoulders. 

“Follow me,” Robin says, and grasps Chrom’s arm to lead him away. 

Chrom follows, as he does during battle, trusting in Robin’s confidence, seeing the ways the Plegian prince _belongs_ , even as Robin himself doesn’t. 

He wasn’t lying, he thinks, as they walk through the gilded halls - Robin’s mother would be proud. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! There will hopefully be more parts of this au coming soon. I've been working with a few lovely people on this collab: Kristin (Citadelity), who provided all the awesome artwork; Mioyat, who bounced some adorable ideas with us, and Ren (intertwingular) who is always good for talking angst and sexy times!
> 
> Please check out Kristin's tweet for more images and some amazing world-building! https://twitter.com/shounenpng/status/1150955993381187585


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